Pieces
by Shadows of a Dream
Summary: A series of one-shots surrounding Katniss' daughter, Rose, as she learns about the Hunger Games. Updates are sporadic. Canon/post-Mockingjay. Please R&R!
1. Mommy's Little Sister

**A/N: **This idea hit me after I finished Mockingjay. Now Katniss has two kids – a boy and a girl. She knows that she'll have to explain to them eventually. She knows she'll have nightmares pretty much forever. So I started imagining how it would play out as the kids slowly learned more and more about Hunger Games.

The daughter I named Rose after Prim/Primrose. The son I named Fin after Finnick. I thought Katniss would want to make their memories live on, and inevitably, her daughter would remind her of Prim.

Updates here are sporadic and not guaranteed, but if you're interested, please review so I know someone liked it! Advice and suggestions for future chapters are encouraged, but no flames. I'm well aware that, so far, this isn't my most well-written work, but the POV character here is Rose, who is very young, and therefore she doesn't have the most proper grammar or elaborate vocabulary. Nevertheless, I hope this strikes a chord with you!

**Summary (may be changed later): "The Games left Mommy in pieces. But I'm her daughter. It's my job to put her back together." A series of one-shots surrounding Katniss' daughter, Rose. Post-Mockingjay.**

**...**

It's my birthday tomorrow, so naturally, I'm reluctant to close my eyes when Daddy puts me to bed.

"You can't keep me here in your room forever," he teases, pushing a stray strand of my dark hair out of my face with one hand.

I grab his arm playfully. "Yes, I can!" I say.

"You can?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I _guess_..." Daddy makes a confused face, scratching his head. "If you _really_ don't want birthday cake tomorrow..."

I sigh. That does it.

"Okay. You can go… I guess."

Daddy smiles. He gives me a big hug. He tucks me into bed, pulls the sheets over me, warm and soft. "Goodnight, Rose."

I shake my head and sit up fast. "_No_," I say. "Sing me a lullaby."

Daddy nods stiffly. "Okay. Which one?"

"The one about the meadow," I tell him, jumping up and down a little bit under the sheets. "I love the meadow!"

Daddy's mouth tightens into a tight line. His shiny blue eyes darken behind his blond bangs. His voice gets all serious. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" I cheer. "Please, Daddy? _Please_?"

Daddy sighs. He kneels down beside my bed and closes his eyes. He begins to sing.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow..._

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow..._

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes..._

I jokingly shoot up to a sitting position, making my eyes wide as saucers. I giggle, shaking with laughter.

Daddy shushes me, one hand raised for silence. "Come on, Rose. I know you're excited, but you have to sleep."

I cross my arms. "I don't _want to_."

"Then I guess you'll be too tired to eat cake."

I groan. _Why does he always go back to the cake? _That's really not fair, but I guess he wins. "Fine," I say. I lean back, resting my head against my fluffy pillow. "Keep singing."

Daddy nods. He continues right where he left off.

_And when again they open, the sun will rise…_

I close my eyes. The song drifts through my mind. Daddy keeps singing.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm…_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm…_

I hear the door creak open ever so slightly, but I've closed my eyes, just for a minute (_I'm not going to sleep! Not all night!), _and I don't feel like looking up. Anyway, I know it's Mommy. I hear her sink softly down next to Daddy with a low, tired sigh of "Hey, Peeta." His answering "_Shh_…" cuts her off. He sings the next line, but this time, Mommy sings with him. Their voices are so pretty together!

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true…_

I barely hear the last line before falling asleep.

_Here is the place where I love you._

**...**

Two o'clock in the morning. I jump wide awake in bed, startled out of sleep. My heart is racing a mile a minute.

In the next room, I can hear Mommy screaming.

_Oh, no. _Daddy thought she was getting better. _She hasn't done this in a week._ I guess even Daddy doesn't know everything.

The screaming gets louder. I slide out of bed and untangle the sheets. I glance at the other bed, where Fin is. He's sound asleep, blond curls in his face, gray eyes closed. It's amazing that Mommy didn't wake him yet, but hey, he's littler than me. He's always so sleepy! _Probably because he spends all day causing trouble, _I think. Oh, well. It's probably better that he's sleeping.

Carefully, quietly, I walk past him and out the door, towards the kitchen. Maybe some cold water will clear my head so I can sleep, too.

It doesn't.

Mommy is still screaming. I wonder why Daddy hasn't woken her yet. Then I remember. It's my birthday. Daddy is making a cake for me. He's at the bakery. He can't help Mommy tonight.

I should be asleep. I shouldn't even be out of bed. But I'll never sleep if she keeps this up. I have to help. I'm her daughter. And today, I'm eight years old! I'm big enough to do _something_, right?

I finish my glass of water. _Now, to check on the little troublemaker… _I peep back into my room to get a look at Fin, but he's still out cold. That's good, I guess. But it's so quiet in the house in the middle of the night. It's lonely.

Mommy is screaming even louder. It scares me a little bit, but I tiptoe over to her room and crack open the door. It squeaks really loud, but as far as I can tell, Fin doesn't stir. I don't hear him get up.

I slip into Mommy's dark room. _It's scary at night._ Long shadows stretch up the walls. The bed looms like a hungry monster, but I creep up alongside it and check on Mommy. I've never seen her when she screams. Daddy says I should stay out, go to sleep, let _him_ wake her. _But Daddy's not here._

My heart is racing like crazy. My stomach feels a little sick. The screaming is getting louder and louder, and it's really dark, and I'm scared, and I know I should be asleep… _but I have to help! _Mommy needs me. I'm afraid to look, but somehow I do. I climb up the side of the bed and look.

I've never seen anything so awful.

She's tangled up in the sheets, clawing at the blanket with her fingernails. Her hair is a mess. Her face is all sweaty. The neck of her PJs is practically choking her, but her mouth is open in a wail that won't end.

"Mommy?" I whisper, between her screams. She doesn't answer. I try again, a little louder this time. "Mommy?"

"_Prim_!" she yells – a name I've never heard in my life; _I wonder what it means?_ – and Mommy jerks up, her legs still knotted in the mess of sheets, her gray Seam eyes flying wide. I've never seen her so scared. She stares into space for a minute, panting, still clawing the bed. Then she pulls away from the sheets and turns her head. She sees me.

I realize I'm shivering. "Are you okay, Mommy?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

She's frozen for a moment, but then she sighs. "Why are you awake, Rose?" she says. "Tomorrow's your birthday... Did you have a nightmare?"

I shake my head. My arms have goosebumps. "Y-Y-You were s-screaming."

Mommy gets down from the bed. "Oh, _Rose_..." She puts her hands on my shoulders, looks right into my eyes. "Did I scare you? And don't lie."

I hesitate. Then I nod – a very small nod.

"I'm so sorry," Mommy says. "I'm okay, sweetie. You can go back to sleep. I'll be okay."

She doesn't look okay.

She looks like she just saw something very, very bad. _Something scary._

She gives me a hug, anyway. Her arms move like they're wooden. It feels... _wrong_. I lean into her hug, wishing it felt normal, wishing Mommy was okay, wishing she didn't scream, and she rubs my back gently with one hand. It's warm. _She's as warm as when she gets back from hunting._ I rest my head against her shoulder. "Why do you scream in your sleep?" I say.

Mommy sounds sadder than ever when she answers. "Because I never really wake up."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Mommy swallows. Her eyes look dead. "Did I ever tell you why I named you 'Rose'?"

I shake my head. "Uh... no."

Mommy takes a deep breath. Her voice is very, very quiet when she says, "I used to have a little sister." She sits down on the bed. I sit down next to her.

"What was her name?" I ask.

"Primrose. But we just called her Prim," she tells me. "Her name was really 'Primrose.' That's why I named you 'Rose.'"

I smile. "Primrose is a pretty name." I pause for a moment, thinking hard. My head hurts from thinking while I'm tired. _If Mommy has a sister… _"Why don't you have a little sister now?"

Mommy sighs. She bites her lip until it bleeds a little, bright red. I can hear her start breathing hard, like after we've been playing tag in the woods and she says _I need a break, Rose_.

She won't look right at me, but I know she's talking to me. There's no one else awake. "Do you remember learning about the Hunger Games in school?"

"Uh-huh," I say.

"I helped stop the bad guys. To end the games. So that no one would get hurt anymore."

I raise my eyebrows. "Cool! Did your sister stop the bad guys, too?"

There's a long silence.

I stop talking. My eyes wander around the dark room.

Mommy's voice is hard as stone when she says, "My sister died, Rose."

"What? _No_!" I shout, backing away so fast, I slam into the wall. I raise my right hand and ball it into a fist. "_No_! She was a _good guy_, wasn't she?"

Mommy takes a sharp breath. "Yes. She was a very good sister."

I cross my arms and glare at Mommy. I'm really mad now. "Then why did she die?"

Mommy stares into space. She looks like me when I'm sick, or after I wake up from a nightmare. No, that's not it. She looks like she's still _in _the nightmare. Like she'll never wake up.

"Prim died because life isn't fair."

I stare at the floor. "Oh," I say. I can't find the right words; it's all just plain awful. Mommy and I just sit there for a while, and we don't say anything at all.

Eventually, I break the silence. "How big was she?" I ask.

"Prim?"

I look up. "Yeah."

Mommy swallows. "She was thirteen."

"Is that big?" I ask.

"No."

"Is that little?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

Mommy takes a big breath. "Too young to die."

I lower my head. I can't make myself look up. I've never seen Mommy so serious and sad. I don't like that I can't see her little sister. I don't like that her little sister is dead.

"That's not fair," I say. I stare at the floor. I stare at my feet. "That's _really_ _sad_."

Mommy nods. "That's why I was screaming, Rose. I miss my sister." She coughs, hard. Her voice breaks. "I dream about her a lot."

"How much?"

"Almost every day."

I take a big breath. "I'm sorry, Mommy."

She smiles, but I can see a drop of something wet on her cheek.

"Are you crying, Mommy?"

She sighs. "No."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," she says, but her voice is rising. Another tear streaks her face.

"You're crying, Mommy."

And she is. But she never lets me see it.

"Go to sleep, Rose," she tells me. Her voice is firm, and I know I have to listen. But first, I give her a big hug. Then I let go. It's hard, but I do. I let go and leave the room. I close the squeaky door. I tiptoe back to bed.

But behind the closed door, I can hear Mommy sobbing the name of her dead little sister.


	2. It's Only A Game

**A/N: **Thank you so so so so so much for the reviews! I went to eat dinner, and when I came back – TAH-DAH! THREE REVIEWS! I was so excited, I went and wrote Chapter 2. This is thanks to you people! Thank you so much!

This is Rose's POV again, but she's a little younger, and so is Fin (he's the youngest according to Mockingjay.) I had this idea in my head for a little while. You figure, at a very young age, Rose and Fin don't realize the depths of the horror created by the Hunger Games. They don't realize, so they do shortsighted things…

Please review!

May the odds be _ever _in your favor!

…

I duck really fast as Fin swings the stick at my head with all his toddler might. "Hey!" I shout. _He'd better watch it, or I'll tattletale on him. _"That's not fair!"

Fin giggles. A playful smile lights up his face. "Why not?"

"My teachers said there were no weapons in the Hunger Games unless you got them at the beginning!" I say.

Fin spins the stick in his hand. "_Uh_…" He scratches his head, pushing a stray curl of blond hair out of his face. "Then I did that!" he says, and jumps at me again.

"I want a sword, too!" I yell.

Fin ignores me. He's too busy laughing, swinging the stick around like a crazy person. I try to climb up a tree, but he grabs me by the shoe and yanks me back down. I land on my butt in the dirt – _hard_. "Ow!"

Fin laughs. "Fight!" he teases. "Fight!"

"Stop it!" I say again, but he's already swinging the stick at my head. I roll out of the way, scrambling back to my feet. He struggles to catch up to me on his little, chubby legs. I'm so much bigger than him – _why does he have to be so annoying? _

"Fin, I said _stop it!_"

Fin raises the lame stick like it's the biggest sword in the world. "I am the District 12… uh… tribute!" he cheers. "I will destroy all the _whiny_ _girls_!" He sticks his tongue out at me, making a stupid noise. I'm going to kill him.

"That's _it_!" I snap a branch off the nearest tree. "You are _soooo _on!"

Fin laughs again. "Go for it, _sissie_!"

I jump at him, and suddenly, we're having a real fight. Like real tributes. Like the real Hunger Games! Our sticks swing and hit and swing and miss and swing, and I end up backing away, panting, with sweat in my eyes. I sigh. "You're ruining my hair, Fin!"

"You fight like a girl," he laughs, clutching his chest. He's probably in danger of doubling over, he's giggling so hard. Or maybe he'll just explode.

"Cut it out, Fin."

He crosses his tiny arms. "_No_."

"You'd better cut it out. Or I'll tell Daddy you're being mean."

Fin shakes his head. "Fight me!" he says again – seriously, can't he say something else, _anything else_? – and he runs at me with the stick raised over his head.

He brings it down on my arm.

"_Ouch_!" I scream. _That really hurt!_ I crash to the ground, clutching my arm. It's already turning red. "Fin, what is your _problem_?"

Fin sticks his tongue out at me again.

"That's it," I snap. "I'm telling Daddy."

"No!" Fin whines. "Don't! Don't, Rose, _don't_!"

"DADDY!" I shout as loud as I can. "_DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDYYYYYYY_!"

Peeta comes running through the woods, jumping over tree roots, clawing through the bushes. He's so fast! In seconds, he's standing over Fin with his arms crossed. His face is stern, but his voice is still kinder than I would have liked when he looks at my brother. "What did you do now, buddy?"

"Nothing," Fin mumbles.

"He hit me with a stick!" I say.

Fin's already trying to hide the evidence. He's shoving the stick in a bush. Wow, he's stupid…

"Is that stick yours, Fin?" Daddy asks.

Fin hangs his head. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. He swings his arms in silly circles.

"Tell me the truth," Daddy says.

There's a beat of silence.

Fin groans. "It's mine."

I grin. "I told you so, Daddy!"

Daddy looks at me. "Did you start this fight, Rose?" he says.

I shake my head 'no.' "I just wanted to play," I tell him. "Fin won't play fair!"

"And what were you playing?" Daddy asks.

I smile and burst out, "Hunger Games!"

Daddy's smile vanishes. The light goes out of his eyes. Suddenly, he's made of stone.

"It was fun," I say. "Until Fin cheated." I point an accusing finger at the maniac in question. "I told him, no swords!"

Daddy's not listening to me. He looks like he's somewhere else, his eyes all distant. He wrings his hands together – _crack, crack _– I hear the bones snap together. His voice sounds about a thousand years older when he speaks. I've never heard him sound so serious – or so sad, or so angry.

"Don't ever play that game again."

Fin looks really sad, his lip out in that stupid pouty-face. He's going to cry, I know it. "_Whyyyy?_"

There's a rustle of bushes and a snap of stray twigs. I whip around, scared by the noise. It' s Mommy. She must have heard everything. She looks like she might turn and run away from the woods and never come back. Her eyes are wide as saucers.

"Peeta," she says. "They couldn't have known…"

Daddy throws Fin's sword at a tree. It snaps in half when it hits the trunk.

"My sword!" Fin yells, and know he's really crying – big, wet tears streaking his red cheeks. "Daddy, no! _Whyyyy_?"

Dad's voice is hard as rock. "Because we don't talk about the Hunger Games."


	3. Scars are Inherited

**A/N: **Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the reviews! And for those of you who've subscribed but not reviewed, if you have the chance, please do. Even if you just leave a "this was cool, peace out" review it would mean a lot!

I finally made my way to see the Hunger Games movie, and that launched me right back into fan fiction. It was a fantastic film, I think; a few canon issues that angered me, but overall, a pretty spot-on reincarnation of the original book. I'm going to see the movie again soon! That's how awesome it is.

Anyway, I took some advice from my reviews and combined two ideas: 1. learning about the Games in school and 2. Rose finding a video of the Games. I'm trying to flesh out Rose's world a bit, especially by aging her somewhat so that my narrative can be a little more flowery. She's fourteen here, a freshman in high school.

This chapter is a little more personal for me than the previous. This year was the first year when I viewed actual footage of 9/11 for its anniversary, and I was horrified. I felt numb. I couldn't even cry – it was all just awful. I drew heavily on my reactions to that footage in order to write Rose's reaction to the Hunger Games footage, although we are obviously different people and Rose's different situation informed her reactions differently, and she saw more straight-up violence. The thing that really came straight from me to Rose was the fact that we as human beings did this to each other. Both 9/11 and the Games. It's all humans hurting humans. That's what makes the Hunger Games series so powerful – the insensitivity.

But all the same, I poured more of me into this chapter than I have in this fic so far, so I'm really happy with it. I just hope you feel the same way.

Please review!

May the odds be ever in your favor!

**...**

I suppose I should have known it was coming, but there are certain things that I just don't like to think about. Or talk about.

Or ever vaguely consider.

I'd known at least two months in advance that we'd be learning about the Hunger Games in history class. Every student, from my fellow high school freshmen to the seniors, received a neatly handwritten paper explaining about the upcoming lesson and requiring a parent's signature, granting the student permission to participate.

I knew for sure that Mom would panic. As it was, I still didn't get enough sleep at night. Almost every other day, I jerked awake in a cold sweat to hear Mom screaming like someone was trying to claw her heart out, or stab her, or strangle her, or maybe all of the above.

In earlier years, I hadn't understood. Sometimes, it scared me; other times, it upset me. There were even nights when it made me angry. I yelled at her. I told her the dreams weren't real. I told her to go back to sleep. I just didn't understand what Mom's problem was, why she had to keep me awake, why she had to scream.

Now, I was old enough to know why, and old enough to help.

I couldn't stand to see her suffer. Sometimes, I got to her even before Dad had the chance to wake up. I comforted her. I reminded her that it wasn't real anymore. I repeated the same things I'd been saying for years.

_There is no more Capitol. There are no more Hunger Games. You are not going to starve. You are not going to die. You are not a tribute. You are my mother. You have a daughter and a son. They are your children, and they need you to be strong. They will never be tributes. You will never have to watch them die. You will never have to watch _me _die._

It always came back to the same thing, though. Mom's voice would come out raw, agonized, as though each syllable were immediately pursued by a knife in her chest. "Prim's – dead."

And I would have to nod.

"Yes. Prim's dead."

We spent more nights than I could count just crying together, fighting off each other's fear. I learned more details, obscure ones – the ones that Mom was sure wouldn't frighten me to death. She never had to censor the truth, because she never told me anything even remotely disturbing. She stuck to the simple, the straightforward; puzzle pieces for a picture of control and terror that I was never permitted to complete. I never saw the big picture. Just bizarre snapshots of a world I had never known, and hopefully, would never know.

Prim's blouse always came un-tucked into a ducktail, I learned. Annie Odair's late husband, Finnick, first greeted my Mom by offering her a sugar cube. Dad once saved Mom's life with some bread, back when they were just kids.

There were some things that never made sense to me, though. Inside jokes that I never understood.

Like how whenever something surprising happens – me managing to kill my first squirrel, Fin voluntarily taking a shower, or something else along those lines – Dad looks at Mom and laughs, "Real or not real?" I once asked him what it meant. Like an instinct, like a reflex, his eyes widened, a distance settled across his expression, and he pulled away from me, crawling into himself like he always did when something triggered a flashback. He said he didn't like to talk about it.

All the same, the phrase "real or not real?" always seemed to return at the most awkward moments of our daily life. Once, Dad tried to turn it into a romantic line. "I am _the _hottest baker in Panem," he told Mom. "Real or not real?"

Mom just rolled her eyes.

Living like this for fourteen years of life, I knew as sure as anything that I would not, _could not _show that permission slip to my parents. They'd insist that I participate in the history class, of course. But chances are, Dad would have to grab the nearest chair until the flashbacks stopped, and I'd find myself awakened by Mom's tortured shrieking every night for at least a week.

So I forged the signature.

_Katniss Everdeen, _I wrote in my best script, with my Mom's favorite pen. I practiced on the back of some scrap paper first, just to make sure I got it exactly right. The end result was nearly identical to Mom's real signature. I handed it in to the history teacher with pride. She would have no idea.

I was usually a stellar student, though, and the lie stung. Every time the Hunger Games inevitably slithered back into my conversations with Mom and Dad, I felt my stomach curl into a knot, twisting like a fist was gripping my chest, and I had to take deep breaths to avoid spilling out the whole, awful thing.

The thought of taking the class was sickening, even terrifying, at some level. I didn't understand the fear I felt whenever I considered it, but it was most definitely there – tightness in my throat, a sudden lurch in my stomach, a leap of my heart, a flash of heat in my cheeks, a jolt of ice coiling down my spine – every time I dared to think of it.

I found myself repeating the same facts in my head that I'd so often repeated to Mom in the dead of night.

_There is no more Capitol. There are no more Hunger Games. It's only a history lesson. Nothing more._

Once, when Haymitch Abernathy came over to visit (or, more truthfully, to see if we had any alcohol to offer him,) he mentioned the upcoming class to me. Said they'd tried to hire him to come in to the school and speak, but he'd showed up for the interview drunk, so they'd declined that option. I laughed, but when he asked about the permission slip, I had to swallow and deliberately say, "I don't want to talk about the Games, Haymitch."

"It's just a class, Rose. It's important that you understand," Haymitch encouraged. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, something like an old friend would give. "That's why your Mom talks to you about the Games."

"Only the safe parts," I blurted out. "Not the whole thing."

Haymitch sighed, staggering over to me. He was drunk out of his mind, alright. He leaned in close to me, getting right in my face. His breath smelled like beer, and I almost gagged. "You didn't have Katniss sign the slip like you were supposed to, did you?"

I stared at my feet. "No."

"You skipped the class, then?"

I shook my head.

Haymitch burst into all-out laughter. It lasted for a very long thirty seconds, but when he could breathe again – or at least pant – he finally managed, "Oh, you forged it, didn't you?"

I sighed. The thick silence was like a physical weight.

Haymitch raised one eyebrow. "Just admit it, girl."

I nodded. "Uh-huh. I forget iti."

Thankfully, Haymitch was too drunk by that point to bother telling Mom or Dad, and I made him promise that he never would. Once he sobered, I reminded him that he'd better keep his word, and he was stuck. He never said a word to my parents.

You've got to love Haymitch, sometimes.

Still, time ticked away, and whether or not my parents were aware of it, _I_ knew that the class was coming. I dreaded it every minute.

But it's only today, walking into the classroom – arms locked at my sides, eyes straight ahead, repeating _there is no more Hunger Games _in my head – only today, that I really take in the reality of it all.

I sit down in my usual spot. Fourth desk from the left, second row; my friend Shane on my left, and fifteen-year-old Araihna on my right. I never speak much to Araihna, but we get along fine. Shane, on the other hand, is the closest thing I have to an older brother. He only beats me by a year, but a year can do a lot to a high school student. And Shane understands me. We understand _each other _in a way no one understands.

But of course, as always, two rows behind me – there's that idiot sophomore, Aken. He's a pervert and a monster. He tried to pull his usual "you are my soul mate" crap on me when I started high school, but Shane came to my defense and put a quick end to that. Ever since, Shane and I have been closer than siblings, but Aken detests the very air I breathe.

Heck, whatever. _I hate him anyway._

As could be expected from him, he's snickering some fresh Hunger Games jokes from behind me in particularly bad taste. Something about how many ways there were for a tribute to die, and how if _he _were in the Games, he'd gut everyone like fish.

Of course Aken wouldn't take this seriously. I don't know why I'm so surprised. Maybe it's just that I never thought anyone could be _that_ insensitive about something as sick and horrible as the Games.

My heart is pounding and racing, just galloping like crazy as I force myself to take my usual seat, attempt to even out my breathing, and keep staring straight ahead. _Don't think about it. Just take the class. It'll be over in no time._

Shane can tell I'm uncomfortable. He's always good at detecting my mood swings. "You okay, Rose?"

I won't look at him. I won't break. I'll hear about it from the older highschoolers for weeks, otherwise; they already think I must be psychotic, being the daughter of two damaged victors.

Without looking at Shane, I mouth, "I hate this."

He puts one hand on my shoulder. Normally, I wouldn't like anyone touching me. But I'm close enough to hysteria that the comfort is welcome, awkward or not. Shane and I aren't anything more than friends. He knows it. I'm just glad to know that someone cares, that anyone exists who hasn't already written me off as _that Everdeen girl._

Funny, since I'm Rose Mellark, not Rose Everdeen. I rarely hear the name Mellark, save for during role call. On the other hand, _Everdeen _is practically a curse the way my peers say it. Half of them don't even know about Mom, about how she ended the Games, about anything at all. Only rumors. I don't know how many are true. I've always been afraid to tell them to Mom.

"It's okay, Rose," Shane whispers. "Just... don't think about it. It'll be over in no time."

I nod. I force myself to look at him. His gray Seam eyes look pale, like someone drained the life from them. His brown hair is a mess, but he doesn't care. He's just worried about me, like usual. "Thank you," I choke out, and try out a smile. It's lopsided. But heck, it's something.

"No problem," Shane says.

I hear footsteps. I look up. It's our teacher, her blond hair in a neat bun, as she enters the room. There's nothing unusual about her appearance – except that I can't help but notice the DVD in her right hand. The long-unseen Capitol seal adorns the case, defying age.

A Hunger Games film. It must be.

All the tension flows out of me at the sight. _Thank you, God! _No nauseating books to read or awkward class discussions to have. Just a video. A documentary. I can handle a documentary, right?

I wring my hands together, and then ball them into fists on my desk. _Just breathe_. I swallow. I try to pretend I'm somewhere else, anywhere else.

Aken's voice snarls from behind me. "A little nervous, Everdeen?"

I don't turn around. "Shut up," I say reflexively, but my voice catches in the back of my throat. I'm vulnerable today. The parts of me I've walled up are going to be out here for everyone to see, and I can't hide them. This whole thing hurts too much.

"Leave her alone, Aken," Shane says.

Aken groans. He doesn't say anything else, but I can hear him laughing – at me, no doubt.

The teacher silences him with an upraised hand. She introduces the new subject to the class, says some crap summary about the Hunger Games – how they were created, what they were like while they existed, how they were abolished – and every time she says Mom's name, she looks at me.

My cheeks feel hot. I stare at my desk. I focus on the safe grip of Shane's hand on my shoulder. I've never been so glad to have him for a friend.

Eventually, the teacher curtails her rant, clearly sensing my unrest. She addresses the class, moving promptly forwards.

"In order for you to understand the gravity of what your parents fought to end," she says, "I've borrowed this from District 12's own Haymitch Abernathy." She lifts the DVD, showing it to the class. "This is actual footage of the Fiftieth Hunger Games, when Haymitch was reaped for the Quarter Quell. It's very intense, at times – but it's vital that you understand what could have been, and in fact, what was considered to be normalcy for seventy-five long years of slaughter. I ask that you remain silent" – she shoots a quick glare at Aken – "and do your best to pay attention."

The teacher turns to the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, sliding in the DVD. She cuts the lights. The video begins to play.

In minutes, I can't breathe.

Emaciated civilians of District 12 file together by age for the inevitable reaping. As I expected, Haymitch is chosen. It's a whirlwind from there. Brutal training ensues. The tributes begin to look like healthy youths instead of walking skeletons.

Then it happens. The Games begin.

Blood and gore stains the Capitol's cameras. Poison disguised as beautiful plants kills more people than I can count. The entire Arena is a beautiful lie – a seductive death trap. This sweet, innocent girl named Maysilee is taken out by genetically altered birds. Haymitch's guts and intestines are visibly gushing from an axe wound _on camera_ as some madman girl hunts him down, one eye ruined, the raw, gaping hole that used to be an eye socket now pouring out scarlet blood...

I can't look.

But I can't look away.

I'm so numb, I can't even cry. I'm just staring. My face burns. My eyes sting with tears that refuse to come. My lip quivers, words screaming in my mind, but they won't form audibly. I feel Shane's grip on my shoulder periodically tighten and release, in time with Haymitch's yells and the girl's shrieks.

Now I know why Mom screams in the night.

Now I know why Dad has to grab the nearest piece of furniture and hold on for dear life until the flashbacks roll over.

I would have nightmares, too. I would flash back to the murders. I would be afraid to live again, afraid to ever love, to trust, to hope, when all of that drowned in blood and mutilated flesh in the Capitol's Arena.

How could all of Panem watch this, year after year, and not say a word? How could these people's parents let them go? How is my class watching this without even flinching?

But what hurts the most, what feels like a blow to the ribs, is that this wasn't a natural disaster. This wasn't something that some distant race did to us.

_How could we, as human beings, have done this to_ _each other_?

I sprint from the room as soon as class is over. Shane doesn't even have time to catch up. Aken yells after me, "Got a weak stomach, Everdeen?", so my face must make me look as sick as I feel, if that's even possible, but I'm already gone, tearing down the hall, one hand pressed to my chest as if to hold me together.

As soon as I reach the girls' bathroom, I'm on my knees in a stall, the door locked, hot tears streaming from my eyes, and I'm throwing up into the toilet. I throw up everything I've eaten all day, retching violently, racking shakes shuddering through my whole body. It's a miracle I don't upchuck my entire stomach. I'm doubled over, convulsing. Images of blood and corpses and smiling teens stabbing other teens blaze through my mind, branded into my brain.

When it's over, I'm still gasping between fresh swells of tears and rolling nausea. I sit on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. I hug my knees to my chest.

_This _is what the Capitol did to my mother? To my father? To my District? To my _family_?

And I bury my head in my hands.


	4. Secrets Can Bleed

**A/N: **This chapter is a direct continuation of Chapter 3: Scars are Inherited, unlike the previous chapters, which weren't chronological. Rose is still fourteen, and this is the day following her first exposure to the gravity of Hunger Games history.

Thank you so much to my reviewers! And in addition, thank you to whoever runs that Foxface page on Facebook. You're sharing my story got me really excited, and your feedback is the main reason that I cranked out this chapter tonight. I hope you all like it, and please give me feedback, advice, and/or constructive criticism.

I have a serious cliffhanger here, as well as some additional character development (including OCs Shane and Aken,) so hopefully I'm catching you off guard (in a good way.)

Oh! And if you have any last name suggestions for either of them, I'd really appreciate it. I suck at names, to be honest...

May the odds be _ever _in your favor!

**...**

I throw up twice before school the next day.

The first time, it's after I wake up from a nightmare – some heinous collage of Haymitch's guts and President Snow and my Mom's arrow in some teenager's throat. I shudder awake with an animal shriek, and I have to bury my face in my pillow to suffocate the screams. I don't need the neighbors to think I'm turning into my mother. When the inhuman noises stop, I'm still panting, and I feel acid lurching sickeningly up my throat. I'm sprinting for the toilet, one hand over my mouth, and then I'm puking again.

The second time, I'm walking to school when the thought of yesterday's history lesson hits me again like a slap in the face. I run off the road and throw up my breakfast into some bushes.

The teacher took the liberty of informing me that although she understood my "challenging family situation," I would be required back at class for another day of Hunger Games education. After all, I had the required permission slip. But no more videos, she assured me. Instead, we'd be reading some textbooks she'd ordered just for the occasion.

_Great, _I thought._ Still images of teenager's intestines. _I faked a smile and hurried home.

Back to class. Again.

I can hardly contain my horror at the thought.

I eat nothing at lunch. Shane even offers to share his dessert with me, but I know I wouldn't be able to hold it down. Shane looks concerned all day, that same agonizing uselessness lingering in his pale eyes, but he doesn't push me. He just sticks close. Whispers some encouraging words every now and then. Keeps himself between me and Aken, telling me to ignore the usual teasing.

I do my best, but I'm nauseous in every class. One final "feeling under the weather, Everdeen?" from Aken sends me scampering to the toilets again, but I don't actually puke. I just retch a few times until I remember how to breathe. I still feel horrible, all the same. I fix my hair, splash some cold water in my face, and attempt to blend back into the high school crowd.

My backpack feels like twice its normal weight. It's like I'm dragging a chain through every hallway. My fear and pain pursues me like a shadow, but so does Shane. Part of me wonders if he's the only thing keeping me grounded in reality.

Inevitably, history class arrives.

It's only a textbook, as promised. To my surprise, there aren't any photos. I feel some relief at this, until our teacher begins to actually read the thing. The hideous detail with which the Games are recorded gives me the beginning of a headache in minutes. It feels like someone is battering the inside of my skull with a sledgehammer.

Shane puts his hand on my shoulder, again. Aken chuckles. _I can't just let him do this to me. _I have to be strong. I stare at my desk. "Let go, Shane," I whisper.

"Rose..." he starts.

"Let _go_."

He does.

I wish he hadn't.

I wish I wasn't wishing that.

Our teacher keeps talking. She still smiles at me every time she says "Katniss" or "Peeta." I want to hit her.

It always comes back to people I know, somehow. I learn that Maysilee knew Grandma Everdeen before she died. That Mom sang a twelve-year-old girl the same lullaby I've been hearing for years as the kid slowly bled her life out of a spear wound. That Dad was the only reason Mom escaped the Career tributes with her life. That Annie Odair – once Annie Cresta, I learn, although she still insists today on being an Odair – lost her sanity thanks to a particularly grueling round of the Capitol's Games.

My head is pulsating in time with my heartbeat by the time the class is halfway over. My stomach roils. Sweat drenches my T-shirt, making it stick to me. I steal a glance at the clock. It's only been fifteen minutes.

Every second marks another grueling account of a teenager's unfortunate death.

I feel my fingernails start to dig into the pages of the Hunger Games history textbook. I need something to hold on to, anything. I wonder if this is what Dad feels like when he has a flashback. I grip the end of my desk as hard as I can. My knuckles go white with tension as I tighten and release at varying intervals, just trying to stay calm.

Minutes pass.

As the narrative moves forward, Mom and Dad become more and more prominent in the events. The teacher won't stop looking at me. I can hear Aken laughing every time her eyes flit over to my face, and I wonder how unnervingly pallid I must look.

Shane doesn't have to reach for me, this time. I reach for _him. _I'm too ashamed to meet his eyes, but I tie my fingers together with his, and he squeezes my hand tight. The pressure brings me back to myself, and I give him a squeeze back. I tighten my grip on his hand. He tightens his in return.

Maybe he doesn't care that I have problems. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I really am stronger than I think.

A few more minutes kill that idea.

I'm going to freak out. I'm going to snap. In the back of my mind, it feels like everyone is watching me, no doubt weighing me against the damaged people in our textbook.

I have to get out of here, have to get out, have to get out.

Anywhere away from _this _–

And then I'm releasing Shane's hand, yanking my fingers free. My head snaps up to meet my teacher's eyes. "I have to go," I choke out, afraid to look at anyone, afraid to know how terrified and mad _I _must look. "I'm sorry," I blurt out. The tears are starting, a rush of heat in my eyes. I jerk awkwardly to my feet, managing to knock my textbook from the desk with my elbow in the process. "I'm sorry," I stammer. "I'm truly sorry."

I'm out the door before they can stop me.

Tears are flowing freely now, little rivers streaking my face, but I can't stop them. I increase my pace, racing down the hall, just needing to get out – but not home, I can't go _home_ – back to the scarred father, the haunted mother, the wordless ghost of a little sister who was my namesake – but I can't stay here, not in a million years. _Maybe Haymitch? _I consider, but the idea's preposterous. He's probably drunk out of his mind.

I don't belong home. I don't belong here.

I don't belong anywhere.

I start running, fighting the tears despite the fact that there's no one to see them, and I feel my heart fluttering wildly like a bird with a broken wing. I _hate this. _All of it...

I'm barely down the hallway when I feel a big hand clamp down on my shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"

I know that voice.

_Crap._

I choke back tears that burn. "The bathroom."

It's not true. I'm going to the forest. I'm going to be alone, finally alone.

"The bathroom's inside, unless you want to go in the woods," Aken says from behind me. "I always knew you had issues, Everdeen, but _really_."

I wheel around to face him with a face that's meant to be unreadable as stone. "Leave me alone," I say. But my cheeks are hot. My eyes sting.

"The little girl's crying, isn't she?" Aken laughs. "Can't take a little history lesson, huh, Everdeen?"

I feel my stomach churn and roil with nausea. My voice comes out in a fierce, low growl. "Shut up, Aken." I shove him away, but he seizes my other arm in an iron grip.

He's grinning contentedly. A wolf would recognize that grin. "Oh, no need to get upset, girl... I wouldn't want to hurt that sensitive little heart of yours," he sighs. "If the Everdeen kid can't handle the hard, straight-up facts, it's not her fault."

I glower at him. I can feel my eyes flaming. My hands curl into fists. "I said to shut _up_ –"

"Easy, there." He pins me to the wall, one hand restraining each arm. His hot, heavy exhales blow thickly into my face, smelling like rank, tough meat. I wonder what he eats to have dog breath. "I'm not blaming you, Everdeen. It's just your insane father – Peeta Mellark, right?"

I yank myself free and continue walking down the hallway, faster now. I won't look at him. I can't look at him.

Eyes straight ahead. Shoulders squared. Walking. Blinking back tears. Eyes straight. Shoulders even. Swallowing tears. Walking faster.

"Yeah, that's right," Aken taunts, hurrying casually after me. "Peeta Mellark – the victor who still paints sick pictures of mutts and dead children." I hear Aken's pace increase, his shoes making a sharp _clack, clack, clack_ cadence on the hallway floor. "I hear he has flashbacks. Looks like he might kill someone. Has he ever hurt you, Everdeen? That'd be a shame."

"My father is _not_ insane!" I spit behind me. I'm on fire now. I feel like I could kill someone. I have to get out of here, have to get somewhere where I can just be alone, or I swear, my heart is going to rip out of my chest. Or I'm going to lose it. Or I'm going to cry like a coward.

I break into a half-sprint, but Aken's already ahead of me, blocking my way, still grinning smugly. "Just cut it out, Rose."

I cross my arms in defiance. "Get out of my way, Aken."

"Are you threatening me, Everdeen?" he says. "Are you going to kill me like your parents?"

My heart is in my throat. I feel sick. My entire chest clenches around my stomach, grinding, and my heart twists behind my ribs: _thump, thump, thump _against my ribcage. A sudden heat, a swirling fire inside my core, and I feel myself start to shake. I'm going to explode from the inside out. This emotion doesn't even fit inside of me.

My voice comes out an octave lower than normal. "I said, get out of my way."

Aken shakes his head. "I'm sorry, could you rephrase that? I don't speak muttation."

And then I'm screaming.

"How would you be, if you'd been forced to leave your family and kill people like you, people with lives?" My face flushes with heat. "My father saved District Thirteen! He destroyed the Capitol, he saved Panem, he ended the Hunger Games, he... _he_..."

I can't breathe.

"No need to get so fired up, Everdeen," Aken taunts, stepping suddenly forwards. His fingers lock around my wrists, pushing me back against the wall. He smiles wider. "That's what they called your mother, right? Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire! I hear she's worse. Never recovered. Screams in her sleep, afraid of white roses, can't stand to hear her sister's name... Prim, wasn't it?"

"Shut the hell up, Aken!" I shout, caught off guard by the kind of language that's coming out of my mouth, but I'm too angry to care, losing my mind. With a yell, I shove all my weight into Aken. He grunts, but he pushes back, hard – I crash back against the wall, the air crushed from my lungs.

"Aren't you a feisty one, Everdeen? It's a shame, your family situation. You're really messed up. If you at least had sane parents, maybe you'd be able to make friends. Maybe I'd actually like you," Aken laughs. He releases my left arm, twisting his coarse hand up to rest it against my face. I think I might be sick. He brushes my cheek with his fingers, smiling. "You're prettier than you act. I might actually be interested in you, if only you weren't that mutt spawn."

He grins. His face is inches from mine. "Wouldn't you like that, Everdeen?"

My heart is racing.

I'm panting.

Sweat beads on my forehead.

Aken moves his hand slowly down my cheek. He cups my chin with his fingers, raising my face so that I have to stare directly into his stone-grey Seam eyes. "I think you would." His grip stings in my jawbone. "You're a pretty girl, Everdeen. You have your mother's fire."

He smiles again, laughing lightly.

"Don't touch me," I choke out.

Aken's fingers clamp like claws around my jaw. He moves his face closer to mine. "Why not?"

My heart is a drum. "Don't touch me," I repeat. Louder.

"Why _not_?" Aken growls, and his grip on my trembling wrist intensifies to the point of burning pain.

Aken's breath is warm against my face. I'm shaking, shaking _hard_, shakes that shudder from the back of my neck to the base of my spine. My heart races. My mouth opens as if to form words, but words won't come.

Aken releases my jaw. He curls his arm up, resting his hand against the back of my neck. He chuckles.

Then I'm shouting. I have no volume in my voice, but the words are flying out anyway, and I'm shouting the first thing that comes to my head, the only coherent word that can reach my lips – "Shane!"

"Shut up!" Aken snarls in a voice blacker than night.

I fight his grip on my arm. He pushes me back with a snarl. "Shane!" I yell again, over and over. "_Shane_!"

There's a shuffle of footsteps, a crash as the door to the history classroom flings open with a start. A stumble, a faltering gasp for air, and then a stutter of heavy footsteps. I'm still resisting Aken – he releases my neck, using both hands to seize my arms – the bones sting with pain in his grip – I'm still yelling, half insane, and my eyes close, I'm so scared, so scared, so _scared_... too scared to look...

Aken doesn't even have time to yell before Shane's knuckles smash directly into his face.


	5. Because I'm Your Friend

I don't know how it happens, but Aken manages to avoid getting suspended. Probably because the history teacher is notoriously kind and lenient. Aken does send a few swear words and insults Shane's way before returning to his seat in class, but more students are there before Aken can land any hits on my best friend. Which is good, because I might have ripped his throat out for it.

Unfortunately, our history teacher at District 12's academy has always been ridiculously optimistic and good-natured. I seriously believe there's something wrong with her mind. It's like she thinks everything that breathes is an angel who would never dare to do anything intentionally wrong. At some level, I'm grateful. She doesn't penalize me for running out of class.

But thanks to her, Aken's in the clear.

Not even detention.

Then again, maybe the indent of Shane's knuckles in his face will teach him a lesson. The mark is already turning bright red, although it's hard to see it through the flush of rage that climbs Aken's cheeks.

Aken keeps his eyes locked on me for the remainder of history class. I try to ignore it, but the lesson on the Hunger Games isn't helping me keep my cool. My palms are sweating like crazy. I wipe them off on my jeans and try to pay attention to the steady pattern of the clock.

_Tick, tick, tick. _

I've lost track of whatever the teacher is saying now, but I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing. I'll probably figure out whatever I missed tomorrow. I have the rest of the week's Hunger Games lessons to catch up, anyway. That's just _great._

Minutes tick slowly by. I do my best to pretend I don't notice Aken staring me down, but I'm all the more acutely aware as time wears on and the brutal history lesson drags forward.

The murders start to blur together into a hideous mosaic, indistinct in its complexity. Just scattered mental flashes of crimson blood, intestines spilling into the dirt, raw flesh caught on camera, unimaginable wounds, infected cuts, inflamed gashes, third degree burns, dried blood caked over mangled limbs, tracker jacker stings oozing green slime, emaciated teenagers, smiling pawns with swords drawn, victims screaming as death relentlessly closes in, some wounded, others crouched in hiding, others lying in wait, still others fleeing like wild animals before a predator – children killing, children killed.

And all the while, the Capitol. Rich delicacies, exquisite architecture, delicate artwork, vibrant colors, ridiculously elaborate fashion, buildings nearly scratching the surface of the peaceful, starblown night sky.

And the people. All their eyes on the television, their hands clutching the limitless dollars that they intend to bet, hearts pounding with exhilaration at the action playing out on the screen: love and death, alliance and betrayal, healing and heartbreak, survival and morality, slaughter and escape, hiding and fighting, fighting, always fighting.

Because this is the Hunger Games. And only one comes out.

The Capitol citizens watch with eagerness and anticipation to see who it will be, all the while living in perfect luxury. Seated on their plush couches, platters of expensive food before them, their silver screens bearing witness to the action.

Safety. The Capitol citizens don't even know how to appreciate it. All attention is on the tributes killing or dying at the Gamemakers' whim.

_Children._ Only children, some of them. Yes, most are teenagers; the oldest are barely legal adults. Twenty-three will die. Twenty-three lives will be cut short like thread. Twenty-three innocents will lie in their own blood until a hovercraft descends to retrieve the corpses. But not all will die. One will live.

One.

No more, no less.

One victor. One child that is a child no longer, and never again will be. One child that will be haunted by memories and nightmares for weeks, months, years, a lifetime – even after they leave the mindless brutality of the Arena behind.

But hey, it's only a show, right? It's only television, isn't it? Just an onscreen death, not real, not significant, just a piece in the game. Only another cannon shot that splits the air, rattles the earth, and then collapses into silence. Only another fallen tribute.

Name.

Profile picture.

District number.

Capitol anthem.

Darkness.

I swallow, choke back a surge of fresh vomit. I stare at my desk, but I can still feel Aken's glare biting into my back. The promise of hell blazes in his eyes.

The hatred brimming in Aken's black glower, combined with the miserable depravity of our history lesson, creates a sick churning in the pit of my stomach. I wonder what he'll do to me. Wouldn't surprise me if he gave me a few good blows for what Shane's done to his face, just for revenge.

Hey, it's not like _I_ punched him. But it always comes back to that Everdeen girl, doesn't it? Silly girl. She should know better by now. She always takes the blame. _She's_ the one whose parents fought through the darkest flares of hell. And now _she_ has to pay the price. To suffer for all the children her mother and father killed. To watch their blood pour and hear the grisly accounts and know, _I was part of this_ – because my parents were, and I have that legacy to bear.

The Hunger Games.

My legacy.

I was part of this. I condoned this. I ended this (because _they_ ended this,) but what does that mean? It doesn't fix my parents. It doesn't bring the innocents back from where their families buried them, solemn and silent. A price must be paid. A blood ransom.

And I'm paying it.

I'm the first one out of class, dismissed early to make up for what Aken pulled. Shane is on his feet almost immediately, requesting permission to leave with me. _Crap._ I don't want to talk to him now, of all times. My head feels like there's a tornado inside of it.

I slide my orange backpack over my shoulder, grab my jacket over one arm, and take off as quickly as I can. The door slams behind me, louder than I'd intended.

Shane follows me in earnest, almost dropping his book bag in his haste to catch up. Normally, I'd laugh, but right now my throat feels dry as sawdust.

"Rose!" Shane calls. "Wait!"

I don't wait. Well, I slow down just enough to let him catch up to me without looking like I'm intending that. "You know, you're starting to seem a bit stalker-ish," I retort.

Shane laughs dryly. "Having a tough time?" he asks.

I bite my lip and start walking faster again. "You think, Shane?" I say. "You think?"

He sighs. "Rose–"

"Don't talk to me. Just _don't_." My throat closes with unshed tears. "I can't take _any more_ people telling me this is just history, that this is no big deal. Just stop telling me I'm fine!"

"Okay, then," says Shane. "I get it. You're not fine."

"I never said that!" I shriek at him, running now.

"But it's true," he tells me.

I sigh. "Okay. It is." I slide to a dead stop and turn to face him, jaw set. I will not cry again. I've made up my mind. "Why does it matter if I'm fine?"

Shane's voice is level, unshaken. Honest. "Because I'm your friend."

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't have to deal with this," I say.

"What if I do care that you're not fine?" Shane's eyes are fixed on mine, intense as always. But something warm is stirring there, something that makes my stomach jump – but not with nausea. It's an unfamiliar sensation, a flutter. A lightness. "What if I want to deal with this?"

I feel my hands clench into defensive fists at my sides. "Nobody cares about me, Shane."

"I do," he says. "I care about you."

_He cares about me._

I already knew that, but hearing him say it feels... different. The pounding in my head intensifies. What used to be nausea is becoming a kind of jump. My heart flutters against my ribs.

"Look." I take a slow, deliberate breath. "I'm glad you had my back today with Aken. I don't know what I would have done otherwise. But I just – _can't_ – handle this anymore."

"You're taking the Games hard," Shane says. It's not a question. He already knows the answer.

I shrug. "What did you expect?"

"I don't know," he says. "I just... I hate seeing you like this. It's not like you."

Abruptly, I feel something twist inside me. Sudden anger boils in my chest. "I'm a mess, I know," I snap at him. "Thanks for pointing that out."

"No, that's not it at all," Shane says quickly. "It's... I... it hurts to see you so upset. I can't stand seeing you tear yourself apart over something that was out of your control."

I open my mouth to answer him, but the words don't come. I stare at my sneakers, trying to hide my blush.

_It upsets him to see me upset._ Again, hearing it out loud feels like a someone throwing a splash of ice water in my face.

I have no friends. Fin's still too young to get this. I can't talk about this with my parents without triggering a break from reality. But Shane is upset to see me like this. Beyond caring. He's _upset_.

I'm a terrible friend for doing this to him.

He's a fantastic friend for _letting _me do this to him.

I feel my next breath tremble, vibrate in the back of my throat. I blink, trying to semi-organize my thoughts because all I hear in my mind is _hurts to see you so upset, hurts to see you upset, hurts to see you upset_.

"Shane... I'm glad you care. This is going to sound pretty awful, but I'm glad this upsets you. But... no one else worries about me. I don't need you to start making this worse by – by trying to _fix it_."

Shane swallows. He pauses, at a loss for words. "Rose, I'm serious. I can't stand this. There's got to be something I can do, I mean, just something to make this _easier_ –"

I manage a small smile. "You punched Aken in the face."

"That doesn't change anything. Damn it, I probably made everything _worse_!" Shane bursts out. "I hate him for what he does to you, but he's not the problem. It's the whole awful thing. The whole damned _Games_!"

He sighs, pain swimming in his eyes. Then he looks right at me, putting one hand on my shoulder, but the funny thing is how although I'd never have put up with that on any other day from any other boy, I don't tell him to let go.

"There's got to be something else I can do," Shane says, his voice low and even.  
>I shake my head. I try to take a step away from him, but he moves with me, and I can't make myself move his hand. <em>Why? Why don't I want to? Who wouldn't I?<em> My thoughts are muddled. This makes no sense.

"There's absolutely nothing you can do, Shane," I tell him, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Nothing but just watch my back, and... keep being a good friend."

Shane leans in, just enough, ever so slightly closer to me, those warm eyes fixed on my own, and that strong hand placed on my shoulder as though to ward off the pain I've been enduring for days. And I don't move. I can't. I'm frozen and sweating and cold, and I'm shaking a little, and blushing fiercely, and I don't know why. I don't know why.

"A friend," he echoes. But it's the _way_ he says it. Like we're something more than friends, even though that's what we've been since fifth grade.

His hand slides gently up to rest against the back of my neck, soft against my skin. His breath is warm. His other hand settles on my other shoulder, and I realize how close his broad shoulders are to mine, how near I am to the muscles of his chest. But the closeness is safe and comforting in a way it shouldn't be. Like it's always been this way. No, like it was always _meant _to _become _this way...

"A friend," I repeat. I sound uncertain, even to myself.

"Always," he says.

And then Shane leans in to kiss me.


	6. In Love and War

**A/N: **That's right – I'm still here, and I'm still writing. The odds, I hope, are still in my favor. And I'm still as in love with the Hunger Games as I was over a year ago, when I started this fanfic.

Some other things have changed, though: I'm now a junior in high school, not the freshman I was when this story began, so there's actually an age gap between me and Rose Everdeen, though we were the same age originally. I also have a Twitter account now (largely used for writerly flailing,) so if you want to follow me, I'm Reason2Write.

Most importantly: In the past year or so, I've completed my first novel – a YA high fantasy involving lots of dragons (I will say no more) – and I'm revising it in the hopes of eventual publication. This has caused me to be largely absent from fanfic, because I have a novel to complete.

But then I saw "Catching Fire" yesterday. And I'm not going to be able to work on my book until I get the sheer emotional turmoil that the film brought back out of my system. So I'm updating "Pieces" today – it's not a promise of regular updates, just a single update to release my Hunger Games feelings. Although I will probably return to fan fiction hiatus and go back to writing my book after this, your feedback still means far more to me than you realize. It's people like you – people who believed in me, before I believed in myself – who gave me the courage to write my own novel.

Well, I've rambled enough, haven't I? Here's the chapter. Thank you for reading this, despite the very long wait. Thank you for believing in me. If any of the character's physical attributes, such as eye or hair color, have changed, I apologize in advance – it's been over a year since I worked on this story, after all. In addition, this chapter will be short, but I have one more planned that I will probably post at some point before returning this fic to hiatus. Now...

To the fanfic!

(P.S. Please don't ask me to post excerpts of the novel online or to share details with you. As much as I love feedback, I'm keeping things very private to prevent against plagiarism, which would obliterate my dreams of publication. Thank you for your understanding, and I love hearing from you!)

**~x~X~x~**

_**Chapter 5: In Love and War**_

There will be talk later. _Shane kissed Everdeen, _they will say. _Kissed the damaged baker's daughter. Kissed the wounded archer's offspring. Kissed the broken girl – cut his lips on her broken, shattered pieces._

There will be talk later; but right now, we are alone in the hallway, and my best friend's lips are pressed to mine, and I can't breathe. I'm frozen – not kissing him back, not pushing him away, not pulling him closer, not doing anything. _Shane is kissing me, _I think distantly, wondering why I'm not disturbed by the idea. His kiss is gentle, tentative, his lips soft against my own. The careful concern with which he touches me is so at odds with the relentless anxiety in my gut that for a moment, my head spins, and I think I might pass out.

Shane must sense my hesitation, because after a moment, he pulls away. When he looks into my eyes, fear flickers across his face. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have... I never... I keep thinking I could make things better, and then I go and –"

The question that comes from my lips surprises me. "How long have you wanted to do that?" I ask.

"To do what?" Shane says.

"To... to kiss me_,_" I say, stumbling over the words.

A fierce blush climbs Shane's cheeks. His shoulders are tense, his gaze unfaltering. "I want to kiss you every time I look at you," he says.

Seeing the lightness in his grey Seam eyes, his clenched, unshaven jaw, the slightly shaking line of his mouth, I find it impossible to doubt that he is telling me the truth. "How long... how long has it been like this?" I say, unable to think.

"That's the funny thing," Shane says. He runs a hand through his dirty blond hair. "I can't remember a time when it was different. I don't know when I started seeing you as more than a little girl. Every time you look at me, it's like I forget my name. And all I want to do is kiss you."

"No one has ever wanted to kiss me," I say.

"Well," Shane says. "I do."

I am standing stupidly, my mouth halfway open with no sound coming out. Everything is happening too fast. My heart is skipping and sputtering, like a mockingjay in flight, uncertain of whether to trust its own wings. "Oh, my gosh," I say. "You kissed me."

"That was several minutes ago," Shane says.

"Delayed reaction," I say. "Don't judge me."

He watches me, and I wonder how I have never seen that there is something more than loyalty in his gaze. His eyes look the way they do when they see a sunset casting the Seam into fiery light, or a deer running freely through the wildness of the woods, or a picture of District 4's boundless blue seas as they ripple and roll. The look of seeing something beautiful.

My breath catches. I'm unstable on my own two feet, and Shane slips an arm around my waist, steadying me.

"I'm sorry," Shane says again. "For kissing you. I won't do it again."

"You won't?" I say, teasing.

He fails to notice the lightness in my tone. "I won't," he says. He withdraws his hand from my waist, but it still burns where he touched me. "I swear it."

I look into his eyes, seeing my reflection there. "You won't kiss me again," I say.

"I won't kiss you again," he says.

So this time, I'm the one who leans in. And then _I'm _kissing _him, _and I don't even know how to kiss someone, but it doesn't matter because Shane is kissing me back. His hands find their way into my long, auburn hair, his fingers intertwined with the waves of it as he kisses me so slowly, so tenderly.

Kissing Shane, I decide, is like fire. Easy to start. Difficult to stop.

But we do stop – kissing, that is. Then Shane takes my hand in his, holding it tightly, and walks me home.

**~x~X~x~**


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